Red Pill, Blue Pill
by perfect-tourniquet
Summary: The images in her head have taken over. They gnaw at her mind until she draws, giving them a proper place in her sketchbook. Images of a whole other world begin to appear, and soon she finds herself stuck in a mental sanatorium. Clary forms a disturbing bond with another patient; they both share the same delusions, fulfilling what the other is missing. Clace. Details inside.
1. 01: Delusions

_Red Pill, Blue Pill  
>The images in her head have taken over. They gnaw at her mind until she draws, giving them a proper place in her sketchbook. Images of a whole other world begin to appear, and soon she finds herself stuck in a mental sanatorium. Clary quickly forms a disturbing bond with another patient; they both share the same delusions, fulfilling what the other is missing. | Clace. Mental Hospital AU. Rated M. TW: mental illness, mild violence, sexual situations.<br>_

_Let's get this out before I have any messages about this topic: While I've taken multiple psychology courses, both high school and college levels, and done a decent amount of research to create realistic characters and traits, I am in no way an expert in mental health. That being said, you may find some info you deem questionable. Please kindly let me know if I've botched anything horrifically, otherwise for the sake of this story just let it go, kids. Anyway, here we go. ._ .

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><p>It couldn't have been any earlier than 5:00am. While fragments of the first coming light could be seen, the birds hadn't started chirping, and the night's chill still was clinging in the air. Sleep came to Clary in bits and pieces. She laid awake most the night with the images of something trying to claw it's way forward. Without her sketchbook to give the vision a home, her nerves were fraying and uneasy.<p>

Clary was reduced to gently tracing her slim fingers along the cinder block wall, attempting to keep track of the lines she 'placed' there. Even with a good eye for art, it was hard to follow without a physical image coming to life. The curving lines kept tangling, and her frustration only growing by the second. She wanted to scream out, tell them keeping her away from any form of paper and pencil was butchering her dwindling sanity even more. Despite never wanting to say it, Clary knew she was sick; no clue with what, but she was sick. This sickness had earned her a bed in this place.

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><p>All he could focus on was the dull ache radiating from his hand, holding it out and stretching his fingers back and forth a few times. His knuckles were raw and covered in dried blood, the first yellowing shades of a bruise blooming. The room was quite dark, but looking down he noticed he was no longer wearing his black jeans or t-shirt, but rather some form of linen pajama bottoms.<p>

His body felt drained and strangely lethargic. Sitting up he took in the scope of his injuries; arms and chest covered in various cuts and scrapes, all beginning to scab over, feeling the underlying bruises across his back as he stretched, head pounding from what felt like a crescent shaped cut between his left temple and eye. As his eyes and fingers continued to skim across injuries, he tried to piece together how the fuck he'd gotten here. Jace had no idea how he'd gone from an such intense fight to this unfamiliar space.

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><p>Small blurb, very small, just wanted to see if anyone likes where this is going? Updates soon. - Leah<p> 


	2. 02: Nothing

It couldn't have been any earlier than 5:00am. While fragments of the first coming light could be seen, the birds hadn't started chirping, and the night's chill still was clinging in the air. Sleep came to Clary in bits and pieces. She laid awake most the night with the images of something trying to claw it's way forward. Without her sketchbook to give the vision a home, her nerves were fraying and uneasy.

Clary was reduced to gently tracing her slim fingers along the cinder block wall, attempting to keep track of the lines she 'placed' there. Even with a good eye for art, it was hard to follow without a physical image coming to life. The curving lines kept tangling, and her frustration only growing by the second. She wanted to scream out, tell them keeping her away from any form of paper and pencil was butchering her dwindling sanity even more. Despite never wanting to say it, Clary knew she was sick; no clue with what, but she was sick. This sickness had earned her a bed in this place.

The time was dragging on as more daylight started to creep in. Still unconsciously skimming her fingers to try and sort her drawing, voices soon drifted their way down the corridor. Most particularly hushed in contrast with the one yelling with all it's might. Curiosity sparked her out of bed to peek out the tiny window of her door. Five or six orderlies were trying to drag a boy down the dim hall, thrashing with all he had, voice abraded from protesting so much.

He whipped his head back and forth, jabbing his elbows sharply back into the male nurses pulling him along, "Let me fucking go! You have to let go of me! Now!"

Managing to get the upper hand, he swung his now freed fist, knocking one of the other men back. In the confusion, it was his one shot to run. His legs darted, eyes searching for some escape. He frantically pulled on nearly every door in the hallway, Clary assumed he was hoping for a staircase, something to get him out of here. His form got closer and closer, she could now make out his wild blonde hair, his tanned skin, his dark clothes, and the blood dripping from his knuckles and near his temple.

Voices now bellowed from the dark hall, all screaming for him to stop and cooperate. The boy's desperate search reached Clary's door, he was pounding on the metal, golden eyes pleading with her to open it and help him. Frozen in place she watched as he looked back to see the army of nurses and security coming to seize him. "Please, open the door! I _need_ you to open the door!", he pressed his forehead to the glass, his ragged breath fogging it. "Fuck, just please!"

Clary began to jiggle the handle, hearing it rattle against the lock and hinges. It was bolted on each side. She locked eyes with him, mouthing the words '_I'm sorry_', she was too late. The mob of workers had snatched him. He kept his gaze focused on her, they shoved him, pulling his right arm back, holding him prisoner. The commotion seemed to continue in slow motion, as if it didn't apply to the rules of time. As each detail slowed she finally saw it. One of her own doctors was wielding a small syringe, eyes darting back and forth to see if any prying eyes were near, and before Clary could scream out to alert him, she'd stabbed the slim needle into the crook of his arm. A new fury reached his eyes, as he whipped his head around to see what caused the sudden pain. The realization washed over him just as quickly as the sedative now coursing through his veins. His form slowly began to crumple, the fight leaving his muscles, as Clary watched in horror.

"Please, let me go, please! Please. . . _please_. . ." his voice was fading and words slurring, chest heaving. He was still trying to convince them to let him go, the words an endless chorus until he drifted off and collapsed to the ground dragging the orderlies down with him.

Silent tears were now trailing down her cheekbones. The quick work began, to clean up this mess and do damage control; they carried his malleable frame further away from her. Her doctor was staring in on Clary as she watched. There was an underlying warning in the doctor's posture and expression. The stare would have normally made her cower back and retreat to her bed, but Clary was oddly drawn to the boy. She felt as if it was one of her own relatives that had been viciously attacked; wanting to claw her way through the metal door and protect him. And she had not the slightest fucking idea why.

Dr. Belcourt approached the door, "Go back to sleep, Clarissa. Now. There's nothing to see here. Everything is handled, no reason to fret." Her long pale fingers motioned towards the small twin bed toward the back of Clary's room. Her soft voice suggested kindness, while a scowl began settling into her stern features.

"I- I'm not sure. . . not sure sleep will come to me after witnessing _that_," Clary challenged. The sudden boldness of her words did not go unnoticed. Dr Belcourt vaguely raised her hand holding the empty syringe to offer an unspoken reminder of what her options would be if she didn't comply. Clary nodded, and skittered back to the safety and warmth of her bed.

"We will talk this over after you've rested, your mind needs a moment." Clary listened to the retreating steps of Dr. Belcourt. After fading into silence, she scampered out of bed to see if any evidence of the ordeal remained. There was nothing. Nothing out of place, no crowd of nurses, no blood drops staining the pristine white tile. . . absolutely nothing.

A dizzying queasiness over took her, Clary's thoughts were reeling, breath knocked right from her chest . . . _Was this boy even real? Or did her head take a vision much too far?_

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><p>Alright, small installment, thoughts? - Leah<p> 


	3. 03: Real

_Weightless_. Not light as a feather; weight, gravity, it was all inconsequential. No floor to give a stable footing, no ceiling to stop her from climbing further and further away. She was powerful, absolute, and free. Nothing. . . not a fucking thing had ever felt like this, as if the grace of an angel was surging through her veins.

Her pale hands gripped the delicate and deadly blade. It was clear as starlight, glowing with a fierce elegance. Her movements flowed, a graceful and dangerous choreography she knew all the steps to. Within a steep lunge forward, nearly balancing on her toes, a swift flourish of her arm; the blade found it's prey. Black smoke pouring out, a deep green ichor flowing down, the figure began to collapse in on itself.

Sharp golden eyes were emerging from the black crowded all around her, reaching for her free hand, a delighted smile beginning to twist itself on the boy's lips. Their hands connected and the space around her hurled itself into overdrive.

_** Weightless. Breathless. Boundless.**_

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><p>The sharp rapping of knuckles on the metal door startled Clary out of her fitful sleep. Her head was dizzied, as if her lungs decided to stop taking in oxygen all night. The room was filled with bright sunlight, looking to be just about late morning. A petite nurse ambled into the small space. A tray of food balanced on her fingertips, and Clary's sketchbook tucked under her other arm. Dropping the tray on the desk, she offered Clary a pencil and the tattered drawing pad.<p>

"Dr. Belcourt wanted you to have some extra time with it today," she smiled. It wasn't often they gave her more than a half hour to draw in her usual therapy sessions, and she treasured every moment with the only thing that helped sort her thoughts.

Clary was eager to snatch the pad and begin working on re-creating the scenes of last night. "Thank you, Isabelle."

Isabelle watched carefully as Clary folded her legs underneath her and flipped to the first clean page available. She could now see the subtleties of Clary leaving this world the moment her fingers placed pencil to page. Here for a moment, then gone forever. Her pencil was moving ferociously, the graphite quickly forming a mysterious image. Lines were tangling, shapes darkening, forms quickly being constructed. Isabelle thought she was again drawing those strange symbols. The more she watched, a space began to show, a space much like the hall of the hospital.

Her reaction time was remarkable, snatching the pad clean of Clary's hands. Eyes horrified, anxiety settling in Isabelle's perfectly sculpted brows. "You know you can't be drawing this, Clarissa. You cannot," voice dropping to angrily whisper them.

Clary could feel the boldness from the previous night emerging, "Why can't I draw this? Why won't you people let me draw?! I need to draw, I need to sort this!" Blood was flushing her cheeks, anger burning as her hands reached for the pad clutched to the nurse's chest.

She began to rip out the troubling page; first out of the book, then in half, in half again, the pieces soon resembling confetti. "Clary, you need to understand what I'm saying. Do not draw this. You are asking for trouble," concern started to touch Isabelle's eyes, "Your time is already limited with this. For now, store this in the back of your mind. Draw something else."

The sudden shift in Isabelle's demeanor told Clary not to push the issue any further. Dr. Belcourt's reminder slowly entered her mind. Isabelle gently placed the book back in Clary's lap, nodding for her to start over.

The raven haired nurse took her usual seat in the corner of Clary's room, nearest to the door. Her drawing always supervised. She found it silly; this was the only place she felt solace, and they wanted to take it away from her? It didn't make sense. Why try to stop her so much? How much could these aimless sketches hurt? She could understand the cause for alarm with the visions that accompanied them, but still. . . didn't they want to know what she saw during them?

Clary began yet another drawing. The last three she attempted just weren't coming to life. They felt stale and dead with the vivid memory of last night pacing in the back of her mind. Limited time to create, and of course she'd fuck it up and not find something to place on the page. "Shit. . . shit, shit, shit," her sighing words filling the quiet room.

Isabelle looked up from her book, cocking her eyebrow up with a silent question. "It's fine, I'm fine Isabelle." Clary ran her hands through her mess of tangled curls, rolling her neck back, trying to shake off the block. Clary suddenly gasped, the approaching image was choking her, hands flying to grab the forgotten pencil among the white sheets. _There. There it was._

Her pencil swirled across the page's expanse, a sharp jaw appearing, wild curls with even wilder eyes, a mouth twisted into a crooked smile. There he was, if she couldn't draw the entire memory she'd focus on the crux of the whole entity. This boy was the essential piece, like the final puzzle pieces dropping in. One sketch of him completed, on to another, concentrating on the different angles she'd seen him. His shadowed profile from the end of the hall, his deadly posture and strength from his battle against the orderlies, and finally his face again- the pained horror while he pleaded, and the strange calm as he slowly succumbed to the sedative.

Clary felt as if she'd run a marathon. The drawings pulling all the energy from her, body falling back into the pillows with a contented sigh. He was there in pencil, a physical being, no longer a fuzzy memory. "He's real, so very real," she muttered.

Rather unfazed by Clary's first outburst, Isabelle stood to investigate what she'd drawn. She flipped through the sheets, seeing image after image of the same boy. Her eyes locked with Clary's, the growing concern from before returning to her face.

"I knew he was real- real, tangible, a physical thing to see and touch, he's there. _I know it_", she professed it like it was the only truth she knew.

Isabelle's hands snatched up the drawing supplies, beginning to dart out of the small room, "That's more than enough for today."

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><p>Isabelle skittered down the hall, rushing towards the elevator. Pressing the button for the sixth floor, heading for Dr. Belcourt's office. Her slim fingers knocked against the dark wood door, before entering abruptly.<p>

"I'm not one to be easily alarmed, but I do believe you should see this."

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><p>Alright, kids. . . it's been a few days, so here you go. As always, let me know what you think. -Leah<p> 


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